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from McGuire, ‘accidentally’ killed him to cover up, and fled. His expertise with a pistol would add credibility to this hypothesis. He was new in the team, too new for anyone to have got to know what he was like. He was the ideal fall guy.
    Jace got up, buckled his gun belt, and headed for the flats where they had dropped off Scott the Sunday before.

CHAPTER 8
Dancing in the dark
    Scott lived in a raffish part of East London, where high density housing had been built in the 2020s to cope with London’s ever-increasing population, and the inexorable rise of house prices. These chic blocks soared improbably among seedy little shops and street markets. The flats only cost between four and five million to buy, or around two thousand a week to rent, had sleek kitchen units and bathrooms and every robotic convenience. They were even smaller than Jace’s.
    Jace approached the entrance, pushed past a man suggesting he visit the lap dancing bar next door, and stared at a daunting battalion of numbered bells. He’d just have to keep trying until he chanced on the right one. Assuming Scott was in. He heard the hum of a pod pulling up behind him and swivelled as its passenger got out. With a shock, Jace recognized Quinn. He put his hand on his gun, stood beside the door and waited.
    Quinn saw him and walked up to him. “Jace! What are you doing here?”
    Jace didn’t smile in return. “I might ask you the same.”
    “I’m here to see Scott.”
    “Why? What for?”
    “You haven’t answered my question yet.”
    “By an amazing coincidence, I’m calling on Scott, too.”
    Quinn nodded slowly. “So you’ve been making the same deductions I have. I might have guessed. But you should have come to me, not acted alone. This could be dangerous.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Ah.” Quinn’s eyebrows went up. “I thought I was talking about the same thing you were. Okay. Let me make myself clearer. It occurred to me that Scott may have killed McGuire deliberately. You wouldn’t know this, but he shot pistols competitively in the States, so it’s pretty unlikely he killed him by accident.”
    Jace felt winded. He hadn’t considered Scott as a suspect, though now Quinn suggested it, he saw the facts could indeed be read that way. It was conceivable the purpose of Scott’s visit to him had been to cast suspicion elsewhere; a pre-emptive strike. Now Jace was face to face with his boss, the theories that had seemed so indisputable lost their force. Quinn, besides being hugely able, was solid; an authority figure, part of the establishment. Unlike Ryker. He was still talking.
    “If that’s the case, he may well have McGuire’s TiTrav – that could have been his motive for murder. So I’ve come here to put this to him, see what he says, and if necessary, arrest him. As you’re here, I’d appreciate your coming with me, just in case he tries anything.”
    Jace’s brain flipped between two possible realities as if trying to make sense of a trompe l’oeil. While he was doing this, the man from the strip club who had accosted him before sidled up.
    “Gentlemen, why not have your discussion in comfort over a drink while watching lovely ladies? No entry fee before eight thirty.”
    Jace shook his head impatiently. “No thanks.”
    “Why not?” said Quinn. “I can see you’ve got something on your mind. Let’s have a quiet chat and you can tell me what it is.”
    They went down narrow steps to the sound of loud music, which throbbed louder as they reached a dim red basement with tables dotted around a small stage. Curtained booths lined the walls. The place smelled of damp and alcohol, perfume and sweat. There was a scattering of customers, outnumbered three-to-one at that hour by scantily clad women working in the bar in various capacities. On the stage a pole dancer performed her act, lit by colour-changing spotlights. Quinn chose a table away from the stage, and after quick consideration of a list handed